


Mom and Dad are Fighting

by ElizaPembroke



Series: Scenes from a Marriage [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Family Bonding, Husbands, M/M, Mild Smut, Post-Season/Series 10, Uncle Ian, Zero Regard for Personal Boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27545737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizaPembroke/pseuds/ElizaPembroke
Summary: Ian struggles to find the time and place to have a normal, adult conversation with his husband after a big fight.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Lip Gallagher, Ian Gallagher & The Gallaghers, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Scenes from a Marriage [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914664
Comments: 35
Kudos: 429





	Mom and Dad are Fighting

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically just a silly fic about Ian and Mickey being unable to A) communicate and B) fight, with lots of guest-appearances from the Gallaghers and Balls.

It was inevitable, really, but Ian was still somewhat proud of how long it took them to let the petty conflicts, lover’s spats, or whatever you want to call the moments when they snapped at each other like a couple of old queens, turn into a full-on fight.

A fact he would love to share with Mickey – and be very cocky about it – if he wasn’t so damn furious with the guy.

Since it was their first fight as a married couple, it started out kind of fun and exciting. It was initially just more of the usual banter and bickering, which was basically their second language and foreplay combined. They riled each other up about dirty underwear on the floor or Ian’s meddling siblings, and then they banged it out until it was all peachy again.

But there’s only so much you can fix with an orgasm, albeit a pretty fucking great one.

As it went on for several weeks, the tension started piling up. The shouting became pointed silence, and the arguments turned vicious and dug deeper into their shared personal history.

Eventually, it all culminated in this morning’s grand shitshow of an exchange, where Ian said some purposely hurtful things that he instantly regretted. And before he could take them back, they got interrupted, just like they always fucking did now.

And it was weird because it felt so different from _before_. There was no risk of the summer ending, breaking up whatever fragile connection they’ve developed. They were legally bound together – in sickness, health, please collect the ashes of your dead spouse sort of thing.

Still, it took Mickey leaving the house right after one of their arguments to set the train of doubt in motion. Was this what would finally make Mickey realize that he couldn’t do it anymore?

As Ian follows the persistently chipper Franny downstairs into the kitchen, he tells himself he’s just cranky. Something he could easily rectify by getting some food in his system.

Franny skips to her chosen chair at the back of the table, moving it with a loud creak, and Ian grunts at Lip, who glances up at him from feeding Freddie in the high chair.

“Tough morning?” Lip asks as Ian walks past him like he, along with the rest of the house, wasn’t just minutes ago coerced into listening to the Digs at Ancient History: Greatest Hits.

Ian opens the cupboard, sighing. “You could say that.”

He pours two cups of coffee out of habit and grips the bag with their last days-old donut in between his teeth. He sets the mugs down opposite Lip and goes to get Franny’s breakfast next.

He’s pouring milk over her fancy princess cereal when he notices Freddie watching him with his bright, big eyes. Ian can’t help but turn gooey all over.

“Fredders! My buddy!” he exclaims, moving swiftly to lift the baby and bounce him up and down with propeller-like noises before he settles him into his arms.

“Hope you like barf on your clean shirt,” Lip comments wryly.

Ian gives his nephew’s chubby cheek a gentle peck. “You should tell your dad that nothing could make this day any worse for Uncle Ian than it already is. Isn’t that right, champ? Yes, it is. Yes, it is,” he tells Freddie in a squeaky voice.

“That bad, huh?”

“It’s just this fight we’ve been having with Mickey.” Ian sets Freddie down and finally sits down, too. He’s back to using his normal voice, but still talks at the boy rather than his brother, probably because he feels like he won’t find any judgment in his eyes just yet. “It all kinda blew up this morning. We said some things, made assumptions about each other. It wasn’t nice.”

Lip surprises him when he snorts. “Oh, thank God,” he tells Ian, completely missing the tone of the room. “I thought all you guys did now was fuck, make eyes at each other, and then fuck some more. Thought there was something seriously wrong with you.”

“Yeah, okay, haha.” Ian pulls a face. “Thank you so much for caring about my marital problems, big brother.”

“No, right, sorry. I’m listening. A fight you’ve been having.” Lip makes a show of schooling his features. “This about the dirty socks on the floor again?

Ian bites down on his donut, gearing himself up for the rant that’s been stewing in his brain for the past couple of minutes. “Uh, no. Well, not _just_ that. Did you know he, um, –”

He’s cut off by the unmistakable sound of someone trudging down the stairs.

Already in his work uniform and jacket, Mickey walks into the room to the only sound being Franny happily humming a Disney movie song that Ian finds vaguely familiar.

“Good morning,” Lip greets him with a big smile, prompting Ian to kick him under the table.

Mickey sits down between them at the top of the table and immediately goes for his coffee. Ian gives him a murderous stare when he tears off a chunk from _his_ _donut_.

“What?” Mickey asks mid-chew, warily eyeing Lip’s expectant look.

“This is the part where you tell me that even though mom and dad are fighting, they still love me very much and care for me.”

Mickey makes a pained noise and probably starts off another argument with Ian in his mind, judging from the scolding glare he shoots him.

Ian tries going for Lip’s shin again, but this time, his brother expects it and moves his legs away with a victorious _gotcha_ smirk. When he looks up, Mickey’s back on his feet, gulping the already lukewarm coffee down.

Checking his pockets first, he then casually swipes the remains of Ian’s donut and exits through the back door. Ian can hear him let out a resounding _fuckin’ Gallaghers_ somewhere behind the wall.

The door opens again shortly after that.

“Amen to that,” Tami announces, her good spirits matching those of Lip’s, which only makes Ian more irritated.

“You don’t even know what he’s talking about,” Lip tells her after she bends down and kisses him.

“And I don’t need to.”

Ian only partially listens when they discuss their plans for the day. With no food to occupy himself with, he resorts to sipping his coffee and fiddling with his ring.

He waits until Tami takes Fred and leaves before continuing his rant.

“Did you know Mickey took Liam with him on a job?”

“What, like, to the store?”

“No, like, to run a scam. Rob a truck with some stuff from an apparel store, or something. Liam came home with bloody knees and a scraped chin.”

Lip’s eyebrows fly up. “That’s where he got it? He told me he fell.”

“Yeah, he told me the same thing.” He taps the table to highlight his next point. “But later, Mickey had the decency to act guilty and came clean about the whole thing. Still, he’s saying Liam tripped on the way home. Like I’d believe that.”

Lip doesn’t reply, just scratches his nose.

“You think I’m overreacting?” Ian asks, a little shocked.

“Look, I’d be the last person to pretend that Mickey doesn’t have a pretty fucked-up relationship with violence. But I think there’s exactly zero percent chance that he’d let Liam get hurt.” He holds Ian’s gaze. “And I also think that this is not what’s truly bothering you.”

Ian’s shaking his head, stuttering a bit over his words. “I just don’t understand why he needs to do these things. It’s not like Terry’s making him do it anymore, you know? It’s just so irresponsible. He could get himself and this whole family in trouble. I mean, he has a job. A shitty job, but it pays the bills. Keeps him in a straight line. And what does he even do with the extra money? What does he need it for? It’s not like we’re planning a big fucking holiday in Paris. I mean, it’s crazy, right? He’s on probation.”

“But he’s also Mickey.”

Ian is suddenly really tired of his brother not reacting the way he should be.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’d be more surprised if he wasn’t selling drugs, or dealing guns or at least blackmailing someone for money.” Lip says all this so calmly and firmly that Ian wishes he’d go back to laughing in his face again. “But you already knew about that side of him. And I sense, in some bizarre way, you even get off on it. So, what is it really, Ian?”

He lets himself just stare at the wedding ring for a bit. “D’you think,” he starts all quiet, “he’s that desperate to get himself thrown back in the joint? To get rid of me?”

“No, I don’t think that at all.”

“I’d wanna get rid of me,” Ian admits gravely.

Lip is smiling at him again, although this time, there’s no hint of mockery behind it. “Well, he’s not you. And I believe it was firmly established that he’s been trying to do the exact opposite for the last couple of years.”

That strikes something deep inside Ian, and he feels his cheeks heat up. Maybe it’s shame.

“Did you ask him about why he does it?” Lip goes on.

Ian feigns a deep thought. “Remind me, when was the last time you asked Tami how she likes staying in the RV months after the house renovation was supposed to finish?”

“Fair point. Fuck off.” Lip chuckles lowly. “Still, it doesn’t mean you need to follow our crap example. I really think you should try talking to him first before you jump to any conclusions. At least ask him about the money.”

Ian narrows his eyes. “Is this your off-hand way of telling me something you shouldn’t be telling me?”

“Maybe.” Lip shrugs, non-committal. “Maybe if you ask him, you’ll find where the new PlayStation came from, or who buys Franny’s cereal, or where I got the ten grand to cover for repairs after the kitchen in the new house got flooded.”

Ian is totally stunned. “What?” he asks, or at least he thinks he does because the word comes out in a stammer.

“Yeah.” Lip stands up. “Sounds like you should try looking past your husband’s ass from time to time to see what’s going on around here, little brother.”

He grabs Ian’s shoulders to drop a peck on the top of his head.

When the coast is clear, Ian sighs, feeling like the biggest of idiots. He lets his head fall into his hands.

“ _Fuck_.”

\---

**Ian (11:06 am):**

I’m sorry about what I said earlier. It’s not true, and it’s not what I actually think.

_Seen_

\---

Ian spends his free day mostly alone at home, and by mid-afternoon, he’s bouncing off the fucking walls.

He keeps switching the TV on, flipping the channels, and turning the damn thing off again when he finds that none of the programs can successfully quiet down his mind.

He cleans the kitchen, humming the incomplete tune that Franny put in his head earlier. And maybe he also spends over an hour obsessively going through the photos of Mickey he has on his phone.

Zooming in on one from the Alibi with Mickey smiling into his beer, Ian wishes they could just skip this whole adults-talking-shit-out-and-not-burying-stuff-inside drivel and forget about the fight.

He just really fucking misses him too much to go on like this for much longer.

The front door opens and closes, and Ian practically jumps up to meet Liam by the stairs, happy for the distraction.

“Hey, bud. How was school?” he queries as he follows his younger brother to his room.

“Okay.”

“You handed in your project?”

“Ya ha.”

Ian stops in the doorway. “Gee, one more one-word answer, and I’ll think I’m bothering you by being interested in your life.”

Liam turns to sit down on his bed, which finally gives Ian a chance to see that the fabric of his pants is torn and his knees are scraped bloody.

“Jesus, Liam.” He kneels to inspect the wounds, then shifts to scan the rest of him. Safe for the knees, he looks okay. “What happened?”

“I fell again.”

Ian’s shoulders sag. Not this nonsense again.

“It’s the new shoes!” Liam hurries to explain. “They’re too big for me. But please don’t blame Mickey for that. They were the last ones there, and I wanted them, and they’re really expensive. It’s not his fault. I lied to him; said they were fine. Please don’t throw them away! I promise I’m gonna grow into them.”

His sincere desperation hits Ian like a punch to the stomach.

“You actually fell,” he says pointlessly.

“Please don’t tell Mickey about today,” Liam insists, “he already feels bad enough.”

Sighing, Ian rubs at his eyes. “And I probably made it worse.”

“You two still fighting?”

“Yeah…”

“I might regret saying this,” Liam notes, “but I’m kinda enjoying you two fighting. You’re not having sex that often.” That gets a chuckle from Ian. “Plus, I didn’t really get to see Frank and Monica together that much, and now because of you, I think I know what it must have felt like.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Not you, too, with that mom and dad crap.”

“Don’t blame me. I had bad role models growing up,” Liam replies, earning himself a light smack.

\---

**Ian (11:06 am):**

I’m sorry about what I said earlier. It’s not true, and it’s not what I actually think.

**Mick (4:39 pm):**

Whatever. Gonna head to the Alibi with Eduardo after work. Gf dumped him. Don’t wait up

**Ian (4:41 pm):**

OK…

**Ian (4:44 pm):**

I could meet you there later. We could walk home together? Talk?

_Seen_

\---

The Alibi Room is relatively empty, and it takes Ian one quick scope of the place to see that Mickey’s not there.

He debates turning back and going home, but it’s only after nine. He spots the familiar female figure bent behind the bar and decides, what the hell, he already went all this way.

“Hey, V,” he says as he hops on one of the stools, “was Mickey here earlier?”

“Hey!” Veronica perks up when she notices him. “Yeah, sat there with some guy for like two hours.” She gestures at a booth behind him. “He left with some girl, and Mickey hanged around.”

Ian digs his hands deeper inside his pockets.

“Did he leave alone?” he asks, hesitant.

She leans forward like they’re sharing a secret. “What exactly are you asking me?”

“I don’t fucking know. We got into a bad fight, and now he’s avoiding me. Don’t know how far he’s willing to go.”

She reaches for a shot glass and places it in front of Ian with a dull _clank_.

“I don’t think I need to tell you this,” she says as she pours him vodka, “but if he planned on hooking up with someone, he wouldn’t do it here.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He downs his drink, appreciating its nice burn.

“That said, I wasn’t here when he left.” She directs her words to someone behind Ian. “But Kevin was.”

Two strong hands clap him on the shoulder before he has a chance to turn.

“Oh, hey, man. You just missed Mickey,” Kev informs him. He props himself on the bar next to Ian.

“Hey. Yeah, he was meeting a coworker,” Ian replies involuntarily.

“Yeah, big Mexican guy. Kept crying. Mickey was pretty relieved to get rid of him.”

“You talked to him?”

“For a while, actually. Left only like ten minutes ago.”

Ian doesn’t mean to push further, but then again, Kevin doesn’t seem to mind the questions.

“What did you talk about?” Ian says, trying to sound casual.

“Shoes, mostly.” Kevin shrugs, clearly not finding anything weird about the statement, even if there are several levels of weird that Ian can think of.

He shares a quizzical look with Veronica.

“You know, like, how hard it is to buy shoes for kids,” Kevin continues, switching from laid-back to aggravated before he even finishes his thought. “Those little bastards can’t tell shit on their own, and they’re always so _wiggly_. You have to stick their miniature feet all the way inside and check that you’re actually doing that instead of, like, smashing their teensy toes. And then, when you finally get them to stop squirming, you never know if the shoe fits. So, I told him about this trick that you’re supposed to do, where you feel for the longest toe by squeezing the front of the shoe. It’s foolproof.”

Ian blinks so hard he feels a bit dizzy.

“Okay, wow, yeah. I’m sure he found that helpful. _Um_.” He clears his throat, masking the erupting giggles he gets every time he tries to imagine how that particular conversation went down with Mickey present. “Did he say if he was going home?”

Kevin shrugs. “Just said he was gonna take a walk. Clear his head.”

“Thanks, Kev.”

“No problem, man. Anytime,” he says, emphasizing his words by slapping Ian on the back.

When he leaves, Veronica arches one of her eyebrows at Ian. “Do I wanna know?”

Ian shakes his head, feeling not too sure he’d be able to fully explain it even if he tried.

He taps the empty shot glass standing on the bar in front of him.

“Hey, V? What do you do if you need to talk to someone, but there’s never any time or place to do that?” 

She bends forward to rest her forearms on the counter. “Easy. You find the time and place.”

“But what if he doesn’t want to listen to me?”

“Then you make him listen to you.” There’s that encouraging smile again. “I know you can find a way.”

With that, Ian’s eyes slip down to her deep cleavage.

“Right.”

\---

**Outcoming call to Mick (3)**

_UNANSWERED_

\---

Mickey’s still not back home by midnight, so what if Ian sits on their bed in the pitch-black room and checks the clock on his phone every minute? He’s damn well earned his right to be dramatic by this point.

He considers calling again, maybe even leaving a sulky voicemail this time. But just as his thumb hovers over the green button, he hears the creak of the stairs. It’s followed by heavy steps in the hall and the muffled sound of someone going for a pee in the bathroom.

Switching his phone off, Ian crosses his arms tightly over his chest, waiting.

“Where were you?” he questions Mickey as soon as he opens the accordion door, startling him.

“Jesus, Ian,” Mickey curses, “why are you still up?”

His moves are a bit sluggish, and there’s a thick waft of alcohol and smoke in the air.

Ian can’t see much of what he’s doing, but he hears the rustling of clothes, interrupted only by two distinct thuds.

He knows that this not how he should do it, when he’s hurt and pissed off, but the words are out before he can reconsider them.

“Did you fuck someone?” he says, and the rustling stops.

“Fuck you,” Mickey spits at him.

“Not an answer.”

“Don’t think it needs one.”

The bed dips as Mickey sits down on its edge, pulling down his pants.

“Well. Did you?” Ian pushes on.

“Hell no.”

“It’s just that you kind of have a track record of –”

“Oh, you wanna talk about fuckin’ track records now?”

That stings. But like hell is he letting Mickey swerve the conversation to his own past transgressions.

“Oh, I dunno. Byron?” Ian shoots back.

Mickey doesn’t say anything for a while. Then, as if only just remembering who Ian’s talking about, he groans.

“Christ, it wasn’t like that.”

“I know. You were making a point. Are you trying to make a point now, too?”

“Yes,” Mickey hisses, the sound loud and fast, biting into Ian’s skin. He seems to square his shoulders, grounding himself. “But not by screwing someone else. It’s different now, man.”

“Okay.” Ian anxiously shuffles his outstretched legs under the comforter. “So, we’re on the same page. Good.”

Mickey lies down onto his side, still facing away from Ian.

“Good,” he huffs into the darkness.

“Good.”

“Yea. Good.”

As a last resort to having the final word, Ian melodramatically flops to his side, facing the wall.

\---

Ian’s biological needs require a lot less time to recover from deep slumber than his reason does. That much becomes apparent when he wakes up with his nose nuzzled into Mickey’s hair and with his hard dick pressed into his ass.

His head is light and empty. There are no thoughts or mental brakes, just the sight of the nape of his husband’s neck, inviting him for a kiss with an urgent sense of desire.

It’s also probably why, encouraged by Mickey’s hoarse moans, he has zero reservations about rolling down their boxers and reaching for the lube in the nightstand’s drawer.

He clings to Mickey as they fuck, reveling in the closeness of their bodies.

But he craves more. Rolling Mickey’s tank top under his armpits, he hikes his own shirt up, letting their exposed skin rub against each other. The electrifying feeling elicits a whine from somewhere deep within him, and he leans forward to suck at Mickey’s neck, burying more of his frantic sounds into it.

There’s something on his mind, a small voice trying to tell him that, trying to remind him that –

Ian refuses to pay any attention to it. Because there isn’t, _can’t_ _possibly_ _be_ anything more important right now than Mickey’s tight heat, his fingers digging into Ian’s ass, or the desperate litany of his words: _yes_ , _Ian_ , _fuck_.

It’s only after both of them climax, when they’re lying next to each other on their backs, sated and out of breath, that Ian’s brain finally catches up.

Shit.

“God damn, Gallagher.” Mickey pants, laughing through it. “That was good.”

He studies Ian for a second, actual fucking _stars_ in his eyes, before he darts forward to kiss him.

Ian puts a hand on his shoulder, not quite pushing him away. It’s enough for Mickey to know something’s not right.

“The hell?” he asks as he pulls back.

“We still need to talk, Mickey.”

“What d’you call this?”

“With words!”

Mickey scowls. “Fuck that.”

He tugs his clothes back on and rolls over. Ian silently follows him with his gaze as he takes a towel from the hook on the wall and leaves the room. Not long after that, the shower starts running in the next room.

Ian drums his fingers on his chest, looking at the wall separating him from Mickey. He thinks of what V said about making him listen.

This is the perfect opportunity. He needs to act now.

\---

“Crap!” Mickey shouts when Ian suddenly yanks the shower curtain open. He has shampoo in his hair, and there’s water in his eyes. He rubs it away, squinting. “A little privacy, please?”

Ian just takes a step back.

“When were you gonna tell me about the money for Lip?” he asks, his eyes not leaving Mickey as he goes back to washing himself.

“Dunno.” He ducks his head under the stream of water, raking his fingers through his hair. “When the bastard wouldn’t pay me back, so we could go bash his kneecaps in, probably. The fuck does it matter?”

“It matters if you’re giving my brother large sums of money behind my back. It matters if you’re breaking your probation to get the money.”

“I’ve got it under control,” Mickey assures him.

“That’s what people usually say before they get caught.”

He shuts the water off and turns to Ian. He points at something behind him.

“Towel,” he says in this weary tone that Ian knows as _keep up, Gallagher_.

“This is something married people should be able to talk to each other about.” Ian snatches the towel from where it’s hanging on the door and stands back to let Mickey get out of the tub. “Finance shit, family shit. I’d just like to know about things like that, you know?”

He drapes to towel over Mickey’s head, grinning to himself as he dries his hair.

“Is it really that hard for you to admit that you like being a part of this family?” Ian complains in almost a whisper while Mickey’s head is still covered.

“Don’t push it.”

Mickey yanks the towel down to dry himself. When he’s done, he wraps it around his hips and moves to the mirror.

He grimaces at the new, dark purple hickey on his neck, mumbling to himself something about Ian being a 13-year-old and a _fuckin’ suckerfish_.

“Can we just talk about all this properly for a second?” Ian suggests, catching his eyes in the reflection.

Of course, it’s right at that moment that someone decides to knock on the door.

Mickey scoffs. “Ain’t fuckin’ likely in this house.”

The knock repeats, more tentative this time. Ian grits his teeth, and moves to unlock the door, prepared to smother whoever’s behind it.

“Oh, thank God.” Carl heaves a sigh of relief. “Thought you guys were banging in here, again.”

He takes in the strange atmosphere of the room.

“Nice hickey, Mick,” he comments with a snort.

Mickey flips Carl off and holds his finger up long enough to bonk him in the face with it when he passes him in the hall. Cackling, Ian comes out and hits his brother, too. Just for good measure.

\---

**Ian (10:17 am):**

Liam’s school thing is this afternoon.

**Mick (10:28 am):**

I know

\---

**Mick (1:43 pm):**

I’ll be there

\---

In all honesty, nothing in the first three paragraphs makes any sense to Ian. But he keeps rereading them, hoping something in there sparks a memory. Because he must have learned this once, right? Before all the pills, and before his life took a turn that no one could’ve predicted.

What he understands with no problems at all, is the low-grade diploma stating that Liam’s science project won the first prize.

He allows himself a private minute to feel proud of his youngest brother before he goes back to reading. And, fuck, he’s bored by the second sentence. But at the least, the pictures are… also there.

“Fuckin’ hell,” someone mutters behind him. “Really thought the only time I’d ever come back here would be to rob the principal’s office.”

Ian is sure he’s staring at him like he thinks the sun shines out of his ass, but so what. He’s here. Mickey actually came. Even though they’re fighting. Even though the security here probably has his picture stapled somewhere on their bulletin board. Even though he absolutely didn’t have to come.

He came to the dirty auditorium of their old school and turned his collar up like an idiot, like it could actually cover the monstrosity that his gay-ass husband sucked onto his skin when they had sex earlier that day.

Ian wants to kiss him, then kiss the spot on his neck.

In the end, he settles for stating dumbly: “You’re here.”

“Said I’d come, right?” Mickey replies with a shrug.

Liam joins them and instantly goes through all shades of red when they take it only a little too far with the applause and praises.

“Looks awesome, man,” Mickey commends him, a huge smile stretching across his face. “Told ya you’d win. The lame projects around here had no fuckin’ chance.”

Some woman, most likely a student’s mother, pointedly interjects with a loud, disapproving cough. It earns her a patented _the fuck did you just say to me_ Milkovich staredown.

“Just tellin’ it how it is, lady. Maybe next time, your kid should do a better fuckin’ job,” he spews at her before turning back to Ian and Liam. “Jeez, sore losers.”

And, okay, he’s back.

Ian hides his smirk and grabs his arm to stir him away from any potential drama. It was time to go find the rest of the Gallaghers anyway.

And fuck the fight. It can wait for one night.

\---

**Ian (9:47 am):**

You free after work?

**Mick (10:01 am):**

You know I am, Gallagher

**Ian (10:02 am):**

Just making sure.

**Ian (10:02 am):**

Can you meet me at home straight after?

**Mick (10:05 am):**

???

**Ian (10:05 am):**

Just meet me at home after work.

**Ian (10:06 am):**

OK?

**Mick (10:07 am):**

OK

**Mick (10:07 am):**

Fuckin weirdo

**Ian (10:07 am):**

😉❤️

\---

That evening, Mickey arrives home to Ian waiting for him in the living room. He’s perched on the coffee table with his hands buried in between his thighs.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, all serious, which Mickey evidently finds amusing.

“Sure thing.” Mickey shucks off his jacket and throws it over the back of the couch. His eyes wander around suspiciously. “Quiet in here.”

“That’s the sound you get when you pay your family to fuck off for a while so you can finally have a moment to yourself with your husband.”

Mickey nods, still not moving from behind the couch.

“How much?” he asks.

“Twenty bucks each. Liam felt bad, so he said he’d do it for free. Franny only wanted a hug.”

Ian squeezes his legs to stop the nervous tick in his hands.

“Please, sit down.”

Mickey snorts at the formality, but does as he’s told.

Just as his ass hits the cushion, Ian jumps into his lap, straddling him. Mickey only about manages to look caught off-guard before there are two palms holding his face, and a tongue demanding entrance into his mouth.

Ian moans and deepens the kiss when he feels Mickey grasp at his hips, his thighs, his ass, everywhere he can reach, drawing him even closer to himself.

Before they let things get too far, Ian pulls back, releasing Mickey’s bottom lip with a soft hum.

“You’re an asshole,” he tells Mickey with a grin. His thumb moves to caress his cheek. “And I really am sorry for what I said. I know it can all be –” He makes a vague hand gesture. “– but I need you to be careful. I kinda like what we’ve got going on here. No, let me –. Before I manage to drive you away for good next time, can you maybe, like, tell me when things start getting too much? So that I can sort it out? Please?”

He huffs out a nervous laugh, quickly realizing that being this close to Mickey means that there is absolutely nothing to hide his emotional response.

“Okay, say something,” he pleads.

“I want a divorce.”

It’s the longest five seconds of his life. The world ends, and with it, Ian’s heart stops beating.

But then his shoulder gets a little nudge, and Mickey, the absolute fucker, has _the freaking nerve_ to snicker at his reaction.

“Jesus, Gallagher, you’re too easy.”

Ian drops his head on Mickey’s shoulder, breathing hard.

“You dick. _Fucking hell_. You’re such an asshole.”

“Payback, bitch.” Mickey’s hand is on the back of Ian’s head, making a strangely comforting gesture as his upper body shakes with laughter. “You ain’t getting out of this alive.”

Ian turns to speak to Mickey’s neck. His purple mark is still there, only slightly faded.

“So, we’re okay?”

“Of course we are,” Mickey confirms.

He pulls Ian up for another kiss. Almost too gently this time, they take turns sucking at each other’s lips.

It’s Ian, again, who stops first.

“One more thing,” he explains hurriedly. “It’s about your… walks.”

Mickey groans. “Better than punching you in the face.”

“No arguments there.” His hand cradles Mickey’s head, stroking up and down. “Just don’t go too far, okay? I like having you around, even when you’re mad at me.”

Mickey studies his face for a moment.

“Okay. I won’t.”

It’s the corniest shit ever, but Ian enjoys every second of it as he nuzzles their noses together and says: “I love you.”

“’Course you do. I’m a fuckin’ catch.”

Ian _hates_ him so much.

“I love you, too, Ian,” he supplies for him, voice mocking.

Mickey makes an affirmative hum.

“I don’t actually mind your family that much,” he informs Ian instead.

“Yeah, I know that now. But I wouldn’t mind being let in on your PlayStation matches or your teacup parties once in a while.”

Scoffing, Mickey brings his hands down to Ian’s thigs, pinning him ever so closer to his lap. “Fuck off, we don’t have teacup parties.”

“No?”

“No. We braid each other’s hair and talk about boys.”

Oh, how Ian missed this part.

“ _Hm_? Who do you talk about?” he inquires, shamelessly flirting now.

“Just this ginger dumbass who still doesn’t see how crazy I am about him even though I put a fuckin’ ring on him.”

“Sounds like a moron.”

“He has his moments. Plus, his cock is amazing.” The grip on Ian’s legs intensifies. “How long do we have?”

Ian checks his wristwatch.

“Less than 40 minutes.”

“Then why the fuck are we still talking?”

The way Mickey’s teeth lightly bite at the underside of his chin has Ian whimpering.

Game on, bitch.

\---

It doesn’t come up, but Ian still feels pressure to do something special for their next date night. Like it should, in some way, compensate for the fight.

So, he brings in the big guns. He successfully turns down all attempts to be bribed into babysitting, forces Mickey to iron his best shirt, and books a table at a fancy restaurant downtown that Debbie suggests.

He can’t say he’s surprised when it all goes tits up, though.

His company’s not the problem. No, he and Mickey are solid, very much back to fucking, making eyes at each other, and then fucking some more. It’s everything else.

The restaurant’s nice, too nice for their pay grade, actually. The only thing that keeps Ian distracted from the sweat stains forming in the armpits of his shirt is the way Mickey comments on every obnoxious thing about the place.

It’s a long list, and Mickey’s entertaining them all through starters and main courses.

But Ian can tell that he’s nervous, too.

For one, he keeps hiding his tattooed fingers under the table, trying not to bring too much unnecessary attention to them. Still, he doesn’t hesitate to take Ian’s hand during a lull in their conversation, beaming back at him. An older couple sitting at a nearby table gives them a disapproving scowl at that. Ian isn’t sure if it’s because they’re homophobic, or just plain classist.

The food’s expensive and nothing special, so they decide to skip the desserts and savor whatever’s left of their date by jerking each other off in the bathroom stall.

Ian’s tongue is deep inside Mickey’s mouth, his hand kneading his ass under the waistband of his underwear while Mickey works on his semi, when they both realize that eating posh doesn’t stop anyone from having a violent case of diarrhea in one of the stalls next to them.

Disgruntled, they pay and quickly leave the place.

The fuck yous from the universe don’t stop there. They nearly get shanked in a 7-Eleven after Mickey realizes he’s already finished all his cigarettes, but in the end, they leave the store without violating either of their probations – or buying the cigarettes.

On the L, some guy takes a piss on the floor of their car, and they share a look of disgust until they both start laughing, feeling so unequivocally done with this whole damn night.

Mickey fidgets the whole time, clearly aching for a smoke. All Ian wants to do is get in bed and cuddle his husband, just because he’s fucking allowed to, but he’s also fine with just observing him as they ride the reeking train back home.

It’s a little past one when they finally make it back to the dark and quiet house on North Wallace. As they step into their bedroom, Ian makes the mistake of leaving the lights off.

“Son of a –!“ he cries out when he stubs his shin on an open drawer.

“Shit. You okay?” Mickey asks, concern mixed with amusement.

As Ian stumbles to the bed, groaning in pain, Mickey switches the lights on.

“No, but I would be if you remembered to close the fucking drawers once in a while, because – and this might surprise you – you’re not the only one living around here. But I guess you’re always too busy piling the floor with your dirty clothes to notice anything else,” Ian intones sarcastically.

He doesn’t mean to start this now, but in his anguish, the words just fall out.

“Are you being fuckin’ serious right now?” Mickey asks, incredulous.

“As serious as an open fracture.”

“You’re fuckin’ unbelievable.”

Opening the nightstand drawer, Mickey pockets a fresh pack of smokes and turns to leave.

Ian panics. This is not how it’s supposed to go.

“Where’re you going?” he says, slightly high-pitched.

“Out.” Mickey’s terse with him again. “Don’t want to disturb you while you fold socks and jack off to it, or whatever it is you were planning on doing here.”

“Mickey!” Ian tries protesting, but he’s already gone. “Shit.”

He sits on the bed for three more seconds before he sprints out of the room, limping a little in the process.

“The fuck?” Carl slurs from his sleep-addled state when Ian barges into his room, completely ignoring him as he walks right over to the windowsill.

The front door slams shut, and moments later, Mickey comes stomping out of the small gate, lighting a cigarette in the process. He starts making his way down the street when he changes his mind and walks back, this time considerably slower.

Ian’s faintly aware that Carl’s now standing by his side. He puts his hand up to stop him from saying anything as if the whole situation was too fragile for his little brother to make any more sudden moves or loud sounds.

Taking a puff from his cigarette, Mickey scratches the back of his head. He notices Ian watching him and grimaces.

Leaving the cigarette hanging off the corner of his mouth, he flips Ian off. With a giggle, Ian replicates the gesture right back.

The exchange fills him with so much unexpected joy that he lets it slide when Carl, clearly too tired to deal with their bullshit, mutters: “You guys are so fucking weird.”

**Author's Note:**

> And that is it for the Scenes from a Marriage series! At least for now. Thank you to all who read, commented, encouraged, and excused all my mistakes. It was fun.
> 
> Find me at [abundanceofnots](https://abundanceofnots.tumblr.com/).


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